I've been pondering cycling to work for a while. But rather than going all-in and bringing my own bike down on the train (with all the logistics that'll entail), I thought I'd make use of the Barclays/TFL rental bikes (aka Boris Bikes).
This morning, togged up in hi-viz jacket and helmet, I gave it a first try. 

As the Hand of Boris doesn't reach as far West as my digs (at least as far as his bikes are concerned), I tubed in as far as Hyde Park (Queensway for them as is curious) and booked out a bike from Black Lion gate.

The route was lovely: through Hyde Park, down to Hyde Park Corner, under the Welliebob memorial arch, up Constitution Hill, wave to the Queen as I passed her humble abode, across (yes, actually across) Horse guards Parade, then along Victoria Embankment into the City.
Proper tourist stuff. I even took proper tourist photos, which I'll post in a bit.

As I rode, I made some observations about the bikes:

• They weigh a ton. 
• There are only three gears. 
• Jumping one off a 6" curb is how you find out what "bone-jarring" actually means. There's no way I'm going to try bumping one UP a kerb. 
• The gears are Sturmey-Archer type, not dérailleur. Don't expect to pedal slower/faster without first stopping pedalling. And there are only 3 of them. 
• There is no crossbar. This means that when you stop (in the middle of Hyde Park, with lots of people to see) and try to clasp the bike between your legs to keep it upright as you do with your own bike, you will in fact be clasping thin air and will be left standing with your knees knocking together and a bike around your ankles. 
• First gear is really low, and is presumably there for if you take it up to Yorkshire where we have REAL hills. 
• They are invisible to pedestrians. Also, whilst the bell works for some pedestrians, it is inaudible to ones with cameras. 
• The number of the gears shall be three. 
• They really do weigh a ton. 
• Thou shalt not have a fourth gear. Fifth is right out. 
• These things are so heavy that going up the slightest incline is a serious workout. THIS is why first gear is so low. 

Still, I actually really enjoyed it, and was looking forward to the return journey.
But then it hailed. And the tube is far, far drier.

Cat Number Two

Avid followers of my other various social networking doohickies will be aware that for the last 8 months or so we've been waging an ongoing war against a Rogue Tom (aka RT).
This gentleman managed to work out how to get through Indi's (she's our incumbent cat - a rather timid fusspot of a little puss, but very sweet) infra-red-keyed cat flap, and regularly stole her food.
We've never been certain whether the lad has a home or not - he's got no collar and is (very obviously) not neutred. We've also spotted him raiding the bins. But he's a big cat, not in any way scrawny. He doesn't look
like a stray.

Back in May, I created the Electro-Hydraulic Tomcat Deterrent:

The contraption has done a fairly good job (except when its batteries went flat) (and when the entire cat flap electronics went kerplooie), but is somewhat reliant on the water in the bucket being in liquid form.So for the last couple of weeks (while everything's been frozen), he's been wandering in, quite happily, and helping himself to Indi's food.

One day last week, en route to the kitchen, I came into the front room to draw the curtains. I got half way across the floor before registering that there was a grey furry thing sitting on a cushion on the sofa.
"Um. I don't think you should be in here, " I opined.
"Sorry? Is there a problem?" he replied.
"No, really, this isn't your house. You don't live here."
"Well, as it happens, I was just leaving anyway."
And he sauntered out.  Sauntered. Not "fled at high speed with his tail between his legs". Sauntered!
This happened again the following day.

And on Saturday evening, as I came to bed, I realised that the pile of clothes on the wicker chair by the door was suspiciously grey, white and very, very furry. IN OUR BEDROOM!!

He acknowledged my gaze with a look of "Hi there. Whassup?" and continued to sit there.
I hung my shirt up.
He decided that it might be a good time to stretch his legs and check that everything was in order in the garden.
I was aware that Indi was in the utility room (where the cat flap is, and therefore the only exit), having a bit of supper - I'd just walked her down there and stroked her while she ate - it's the only way to make her eat lately as she's so scared of Him coming through the catflap). And the very same He was about to saunter past from the opposite direction - from within her territory!
"Uh-oh," I thought. "Brace for impact!"

"MRRRAAOOOOWWWWWWLLLLLLLLrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"
*clatter*

This morning, while we four were sat in bed reading / opening our advent calendar / scritching Indi / being scritched by Big Human, there was a call from downstairs from Caroline-the-temporarily-lodging-neighbour*: "John! Can you give me a hand down here please?"
I went down to find RT sat on a kitchen chair and Caroline looking helpless. She'd been trying to shoo him out, and he absolutely wasn't having it. Not so much that he was objecting to being shooed, more that he was making absolutely no effort to remove himself. Before now he's always been aware that he's somewhere he shouldn't be and has taken little encouragement to leave.
When he saw me, he sauntered into the ute room as usual, heading for the cat flap.
But he stopped.
By Indi's (licked spotless) bowls.
And looked at me.
And said "Mraow?"
I stepped into the room.
He proceeded to weave around my legs.

I looked bemusedly at Caroline.
"What's just happened here?"
"You appear to have been adopted."
"Ahh."
So I gave him a bit of a stroke. (*rub, purr etc.* followed by more frantic "Mraooow??!")
*sigh* "OK then."
I gave him a small portion of food, which he devoured, licking the bowl clean and asking for more. I gave him the rest.
And another sachet.

I returned upstairs to Be Nice To Indi and to report the morning's happenings (somewhat nervously - Helen isn't a cat person and has previously quite unequivocally said we're "not having another bloody cat!")
"But he just won't leave!"
"You're not being tough enough on him!"
At which point she headed purposefully downstairs. Xander and I listened from the bedroom...

"Go on! Out!"
"?"
"Go! You don't live here!"
"Mrrp?"
At which point we crept halfway down the stairs to witness this battle of wills, whilst desperately trying to contain our chuckling.
Then H carried out a masterful ploy: she tempted him into the ute room and shut the door behind him so that the only way out was the cat flap.
"Hah!"
It must have been all of ten seconds before she looked at me and said "I feel all guilty now."
"See! Told you! Not so easy, is it?!"
A jumping-onto-worksurface sound was heard. She opened the door again.
"Off there, you!"
"Mraow?"
She shrugged, obviously in much the same dilemma as I was 15 minutes earlier. A kind of helpless resignation, really.

I fed him his third sachet, all of which was hoovered up.
And then another, which he didn't quite manage to finish.

Helen was later heard to say "Well, he does make a better pet than Indi..."
It's true, I'll admit - she's a very timid cat and more likely to run away from Xander than be... well... cat-like at him. Something which RT has since demonstrated he's very adept at.



So this morning we took him to the vet to see if we could find a chip on him. It took 3 of us to get him in the cat-carrier - he's a strong bugger.
It turns out he hasn't. And the vet was of the same opinion as us - no collar, not neutered, no chip = no owner. And if he does have another home, they haven't been looking after him properly else he'd have had at least 2 of those 3.
So we chipped him. He's now legally ours.


"But what of poor Indi?" I hear you cry.
She's been so reclusive since he's been able to get in that it can't get any worse. My hope is that she gets used to him and will actually get better at going out because she's no longer scared that the Big Scary Tom will be out there waiting to get her.
They've seen  each other in the house a couple of times - he nonchalantly washes or looks innocently at us; she swears and growls then runs away and hides. But we'll give it time.



As for a name, that was easy.
He's been referred to for a while as "RT" (Rogue Tom), or "Arty". And this morning, Helen (who, you recall, Doesn't Like Cats) decided that should be "Artemus" in full. Not Artemis, Artemus. Because it rhymes with "puss".
We've since decided that his full Sunday name is "Artemus T Fattipus" on account of his girth. He really is huge.

And I've made the lad giggle like a dafty with this:

Artemus Fattipus

Once ate a platypus

I shall have to think of what happened after that....



*She works away during the week, and while she was away the week before last, a pipe burst. In the attic. The house is still being dried out and will then be replastered and almost completely refurnished. It's a wreck.